The Sand-Hills of Jutland Part 2

One day when they were walking together, and Jorgen was holding her hand with a tight and affectionate grasp, she said to him,--

"Jorgen, I have something on my mind. Let me be your _aesepige_, for you are to me like a brother; but Morten, who has hired me at present--he and I are sweethearts. Do not mention this, however, to any one."

And Jorgen felt as if a sand-hill had opened under him. He did not utter a single word, but nodded his head by way of a yes--more was not necessary; but he felt suddenly in his heart that he could not endure Morten, and the longer he reflected on the matter the clearer it became to him. Morten had stolen from him the only one he cared for, and that was Else. She was now lost to him.

If the sea should be boisterous when the fishermen return with their little smacks, it is curious to see them cross the reefs. One of the fishermen stands erect in advance, the others watch him intently, while sitting with their oars ready to use when he gives them a sign that now are coming the great waves which will lift the boats over; and they are lifted, so that those on sh.o.r.e can only see their keels.

The next moment the entire boat is hidden by the surging waves--neither boat, nor mast, nor people are to be seen: one would fancy the sea had swallowed them up. A minute or two more, and they show themselves, looking as if some mighty marine monsters were creeping out of the foaming sea, the oars moving like their legs. With the second and the third reef the same process takes place as with the first; and now the fishermen spring into the water and drag the boats on sh.o.r.e, every succeeding billow helping and giving them a good lift until they are fairly out of the water. One false move on the outside of the reefs--one moment's delay, and they would be s.h.i.+pwrecked.

"Then it would be all over with me, and with Morten at the same time."

This thought came across Jorgen's mind out at sea, where his foster-father had been taken suddenly ill: he was in a high fever.

This was just a little way from the outer reef. Jorgen sprang up.

"Father, allow me," he cried, and his eye glanced over Morten and over the waves; but just then every oar was raised for the great struggle, and as the first enormous billow came, he observed his father's pale suffering countenance, and he could not carry out the wicked design that had suggested itself to his mind. The boat got safely over the reefs, and in to the land; but Jorgen's evil thoughts remained, and his blood boiled at every little disagreeable act that started up in his recollection from the time that he and Morten had been comrades, and his anger increased as he remembered each offence. Morten had supplanted him, he felt a.s.sured of that; and that was enough to make him hateful to him. A few of the fishermen remarked his scowling looks at Morten, but Morten himself did not; he was, just as usual, ready to give every a.s.sistance, and very talkative--a little too much of the latter, perhaps.

Jorgen's foster-father was obliged to keep his bed; he became worse, and died within a week; and Jorgen inherited the house behind the sand-hills--a humble habitation to be sure, but it was always something. Morten had not so much.

"You will not take service any more, Jorgen, I suppose, but will remain among us now," said one of the old fishermen.

But Jorgen had no such intention. He was thinking, on the contrary, of going away to see a little of the world. The eel-man of Fjaltring had an uncle up at Gammel-Skagen; he was a fisherman, but also a thriving trader who owned some little vessels. He was such an excellent old man, it would be a good thing to take service with him. Gammel-Skagen lies on the northern part of Jutland, at the other extremity of the country from Huusby-Klitter, and that was what Jorgen thought most of.

He was determined not to stay for Else and Morten's wedding, which was to take place in a couple of weeks.

"It was foolish to take his departure now," was the opinion of the old fisherman who had spoken to him before. "Now Jorgen had a house, Else would most likely prefer taking him."

Jorgen answered so shortly, when thus spoken to, that it was difficult to ascertain what he thought; but the old man brought Else to him. She did not say much; but this she did say,--

"You have now a house: one must take that into consideration."

And Jorgen also took much into consideration. In the ocean there are many heavy seas--the human heart has still heavier ones. There pa.s.sed many thoughts, strong and weak mingled together, through Jorgen's head and heart, and he asked Else,--

"If Morten had a house as well as I, which of us two would you rather take?"

"But Morten has no house, and has no chance of getting one."

"But we think it is very likely he will have one."

"Oh! then I would take Morten, of course; but one can't live upon love."

And Jorgen reflected for the whole night over what had pa.s.sed. There was something in him he could not himself account for; but he had one idea--it overpowered his love for Else, and it led him to Morten. What he said and did there had been well considered by him--he made his house over to Morten on the lowest possible terms, saying that he would himself prefer to go into service. And Else kissed him in her grat.i.tude when she heard it, for she certainly loved Morten best.

At an early hour in the morning Jorgen was to take his departure. The evening before, though it was already late, he fancied he would like to visit Morten once more, so he went; and amongst the sand-hills he met the old fisherman, who did not seem to think of his going away, and who jested about all the girls being so much in love with Morten.

Jorgen cut him short, bade him farewell, and proceeded to the house where Morten lived. When he reached it he heard loud talking within: Morten was not alone. Jorgen was somewhat capricious. Of all persons he would least wish to find Else there; and, on second thoughts, he would rather not give Morten an opportunity of renewing his thanks, so he turned back again.

Early next morning, before the dawn of day, he tied up his bundle, took his provision box, and went down from the sand-hills to the sea-beach. It was easier to walk there than on the heavy sandy road; besides, it was shorter, for he was first going to Fjaltring, near Vosbjerg, where the eel-man lived, to whom he had promised a visit.

The sea was smooth and beautifully blue--sh.e.l.ls of different sorts lay around. These were the playthings of his childhood--he now trod them under his feet. As he was walking along his nose began to bleed. That was only a trifle in itself, but it might have some meaning. A few large drops of blood fell upon his arms; he washed them off, stopped the bleeding, and found that the loss of a little blood had actually made him feel lighter in his head and in his heart. A small quant.i.ty of sea-kale was growing in the sand; he broke a blade off of it, and stuck it in his hat. He tried to feel happy and confident now that he was going out into the wide world--"away from the door, a little way up the stream," as the eel's children had said; and the mother said, "Take care of bad men; they will catch you, skin you, cut you in pieces, and fry you." He repeated this to himself, and laughed at it.

He would get through the world with a whole skin--no fear of that; for he had plenty of courage, and that was a good weapon of defence.

The sun was already high up, when, as he approached the small inlet between the German Ocean and Nissumfiord, he happened to look back, and perceived at a considerable distance two people on horseback, and others following on foot: they were evidently making great haste, but it was nothing to him.

The ferry-boat lay on the other side of the narrow arm of the sea.

Jorgen beckoned and called to the person who had charge of it. It came over, and he entered it; but before he and the man who was rowing had got half way across, the men he had seen hurrying on reached the banks, and with threatening gestures shouted the name of the magistrate. Jorgen could not comprehend what they wanted, but considered it would be best to go back, and even took one of the oars to row the faster. The moment the boat neared the sh.o.r.e, people sprang into it, and before he had an idea of what they were going to do, they had thrown a rope round his hands, and made him their prisoner.

"Your evil deed will cost you your life," said they. "It is lucky we arrived in time to catch you."

It was neither more nor less than a murder he was accused of having committed. Morten had been found stabbed by a knife in his neck. One of the fishermen had, late the night before, met Jorgen going to the place where Morten lived. It was not the first time he had lifted a knife at him, they knew. He must be the murderer; therefore he must be taken into custody. Ringkjobing was the most proper place to which to carry him, but it was a long way off. The wind was from the west. In less than half an hour they could cross the fiord at Skjaerumaa, and from thence they had only a short way to go to Norre-Vosborg, which was a strong place, with ramparts and moats. In the boat was a brother of the bailiff there, and he promised to obtain permission to put Jorgen for the present into the cell where Lange Margrethe had been confined before her execution.

Jorgen's defence of himself was not listened to; for a few drops of blood on his clothes spoke volumes against him. His innocence was clear to himself; and, if justice were not done him, he must give himself up to his fate.

They landed near the site of the old ramparts, where Sir Bugge's castle had stood--there, where Jorgen, with his foster-father and mother, had pa.s.sed on their way to the funeral meeting, at which had been spent the four brightest and pleasantest days of his childhood.

He was conveyed again the same way by the fields up to Norre-Vosborg, and yonder stood in full flower the elder tree, and yonder the lindens shed their sweet perfume around; and he felt as if it had been only yesterday that he had been there.

In the west wing of the castle is a subterranean pa.s.sage under the high stairs; this leads to a low, vaulted cell, in which Lange Margrethe had been imprisoned, and whence she had been taken to the place of execution. She had eaten the hearts of five children, and believed that, could she have added two more to the number, she would have been able to fly and to render herself invisible. In the wall there was a small, narrow air-hole. No gla.s.s was in this rude window; yet the sweetly-scented linden tree on the outside could not send the slightest portion of its refres.h.i.+ng perfume into that close, mouldy dungeon. There was only a miserable pallet there; but a good conscience is a good pillow, therefore Jorgen could sleep soundly.

The thick wooden door was locked, and it was further secured by an iron bolt; but the nightmare of superst.i.tion can creep through a key-hole in the baronial castle as in the fisherman's hut. It stole in where Jorgen was sitting and thinking upon Lange Margrethe and her misdeeds. Her last thoughts had filled that little room the night before her execution; he remembered all the magic that, in the olden times, was practised when the lord of the manor, Svanwedel, lived there; and it was well known how, even now, the chained dog that stood on the bridge was found every morning hung over the railing in his chain. All these tales recurred to Jorgen's mind, and made him s.h.i.+ver; and there was but one sun ray which shone upon him, and that was the recollection of the blooming elder and linden trees.

He would not be kept long here; he would be removed to Ringkjobing, where the prison was equally strong.

These times were not like ours. It went hard with the poor then; for then it had not come to pa.s.s that peasants found their way up to lordly mansions, and that from these regiments coachmen and other servants became judges in the petty courts, which were invested with the power to condemn, for perhaps a trifling fault, the poor man to be deprived of all his goods and chattels, or to be flogged at the whipping-post. A few of these courts still remain; and in Jutland, far from "the King's Copenhagen," and the enlightened and liberal government, even now the law is not always very wisely administered: it certainly was not so in the case of poor Jorgen.

It was bitterly cold in the place where he was confined. When was this imprisonment to be at an end? Though innocent, he had been cast into wretchedness and solitude--that was his fate. How things had been ordained for him in this world, he had now time to think over. Why had he been thus treated--his portion made so hard to bear? Well, this would be revealed "in that other life" which a.s.suredly awaits all. In the humble cottage that belief had been engrafted into him, which, amidst the grandeur and brightness of his Spanish home, had never shone upon his father's heart: _that_ now, in the midst of cold and darkness, became his consolation, G.o.d's gift of grace, which never can deceive.

The storms of spring were now raging; the roaring of the German Ocean was heard far inland; but just when the tempest had lulled, it sounded as if hundreds of heavy wagons were driving over a hard tunnelled road. Jorgen heard it even in his dungeon, and it was a change in the monotony of his existence. No old melody could have gone more deeply to his heart than these sounds--the rolling ocean--the free ocean--on which one can be borne throughout the world, fly with the wind, and wherever one went have one's own house with one, as the snail has his--to stand always upon home's ground, even in a foreign land.

How eagerly he listened to the deep rolling! How remembrances hurried through his mind! "Free--free--how delightful to be free, even without soles to one's shoes, and in a coa.r.s.e patched garment!" The very idea brought the warm blood rus.h.i.+ng into his cheeks, and he struck the wall with his fist in his vain impatience. Weeks, months, a whole year had elapsed, when a gipsy named Niels Tyv--"the horse-dealer," as he was also called--was arrested, and then came better times: it was ascertained what injustice had been done to Jorgen.

To the north of Ringkjobing Fiord, at a small country inn, on the evening of the day previous to Jorgen's leaving home, and the committal of the murder, Niels Tyv and Morten had met each other. They drank a little together, not enough certainly to get into any man's head, but enough to set Morten talking too freely. He went on chattering, as he was fond of doing, and he mentioned that he had bought a house and some ground, and was going to be married. Niels thereupon asked him where was the money which was to pay it, and Morten struck his pocket pompously, exclaiming in a vaunting manner,--

"Here, where it should be!"

That foolish bragging answer cost him his life; for when he left the little inn Niels followed him, and stabbed him in the neck with his knife, in order to rob him of the money, which, after all, was not to be found.

There was a long trial and much deliberation: it is enough for us to know that Jorgen was set free at last. But what compensation was made to him for all he had suffered that long weary year in a cold, gloomy prison; secluded from all mankind? Why, he was a.s.sured that it was fortunate he was innocent, and he might now go about his business! The burgomaster gave him ten marks for his travelling expenses, and several of the townspeople gave him ale and food. They were very good people. Not all, then, would "skin you, and lay you on the frying-pan!" But the best of all was that the trader Bronne from Skagen, he to whom, a year before, Jorgen intended to have hired himself, was just at the time of his liberation on business at Ringkjobing. He heard the whole story; he had a heart and understanding; and, knowing what Jorgen must have suffered and felt, he was determined to do what he could to improve his situation, and let him see that there were some kind-hearted people in the world.

From a jail to freedom--from solitude and misery to a home which, by comparison, might be called a heaven--to kindness and love, he now pa.s.sed. This also was to be a trial of his character. No chalice of life is altogether wormwood. A good person would not fill such for a child: would, then, the Almighty Father, who is all love, do so?

"Let all that has taken place be now buried and forgotten," said the worthy Mr. Bronne. "We shall draw a thick line over last year. We shall burn the almanac. In two days we shall start for that blessed, peaceful, pleasant Skagen. It is said to be only a little insignificant nook in the country; but a nice warm nook it is, with windows open to the wide world."

That _was_ a journey--that _was_ to breathe the fresh air again--to come from the cold, damp prison-cell out into the warm suns.h.i.+ne!

The heather was blooming on the moorlands; the shepherd boys sat on the tumuli and played their flutes, which were manufactured out of the bones of sheep; the FATA MORGANA, the beautiful mirage of the desert, with its hanging seas and undulating woods, showed itself; and that bright, wonderful phenomenon in the air, which is called the "Lokeman driving his sheep."

Towards Limfiorden they pa.s.sed over the Vandal's land; and towards Skagen they journeyed where the men with the long beards, _Langbarderne_,[1] came from. In that locality it was that, during the famine under King Snio, all old people and young children were ordered to be put to death; but the n.o.ble lady, Gambaruk, who was the heiress of that part of the country, insisted that the children should rather be sent out of the country. Jorgen was learned enough to know all about this; and, though he was not acquainted with the Langobarders' country beyond the lofty Alps, he had a good idea what it must be, as he had himself, when a boy, been in the south of Europe, in Spain. Well did he remember the heaped-up piles of fruit, the red pomegranate flowers, the din, the clamour, the tolling of bells in the Spanish city's great hive; but all was more charming at home, and Denmark was Jorgen's home.

[Footnote 1: Langobarder, a northern tribe, which, in very ancient times, dwelt in the north of Jutland. From thence they migrated to the north of Germany, where, according to Tacitus, they lived bout the period of the birth of Christ, and were a poor but brave people. Their original name was Vinuler, or Viniler. "When these Viniler," say the traditions, or rather fables of Scandinavia, "were at war with the Vandals, and the latter went to Odin to beseech him to grant them the victory, and received for answer that Odin would award the victory to those whom he beheld first at sunrise, the warlike female, Gambaruk, or Gunborg, who was mother to the leaders of the Viniler--Ebbe and Aage--applied to Frigga, Odin's wife, to entreat victory for her people. The G.o.ddess advised that the females of the tribe should let down their long hair so as to imitate beards, and, early in the morning, should stand with their husbands in the east, where Odin would look out. When, at sunrise, Odin saw them, he exclaimed, 'Who are these long-bearded people?' whereupon Frigga replied, that since he had bestowed, a name upon them, he must also give them the victory.

This was the origin of the _Longobardi_, who, after many wanderings, found their way into Italy, and, under ALBOIN, founded the kingdom of Lombardy."--_Trans._]

At length they reached Vendilskaga, as Skagen is called in the old Norse and Icelandic writings. For miles and miles, interspersed with sand-hills and cultivated land, houses, farms, and drifting sand-banks, stretched, and stretch still, towards Gammel-Skagen, Wester and Osterby, out to the lighthouse near Grenen, a waste, a desert, where the wind drives before it the loose sand, and where sea-gulls and wild swans send forth their discordant cries in concert.

To the south-west, a few miles from Grenen, lies High, or Old Skagen, where the worthy Bronne lived, and where Jorgen was also to reside.